Archive | April, 2011

Birth

22 Apr

Moby – 7

Birth and death coincide with one another, and today there were both. Both in the lost and found. A broken car, a lost job, and the end of one. Life is a funny thing, always cracking jokes, leering the whole way. So who says a thing lost can’t also be a birth? A lost path in these woods means a new path is tread.

I remember the quiet days of kids.
Jumping in puddles mud between my toes.
Feel the hug of red red sun on my lids.
Tin can telephone, pushed too close, cut nose.
The games we’d play with paint and with paper
I always thought life would last forever
Young full of awe, never saw it taper
Till I look back I lost all life’s fervor.
The path I took was not the one I plot.
The past filled with nothing, blind memories.
The dreams of mine were not easily got.
Fell on something not in my fantasies.
I stand and wear my pressed black two piece suit.
I do the things you think I ought to do.

image:Geert Orye

No Time

19 Apr

No time for a real blog post.  Today is all about… 

Fasting

19 Apr

 

 

Marconi Union – We Travel

We are quick. We drive by airports at night. Watch planes pull people to the sky. We hide in basement caves.

Somewhere along the way we forgot how to be with. Fasting friends did that.

But in a way, friendship has a life cycle, and technology has ripped that apart. I think I’d keep in touch with many more if the only means of communication was writing a letter.

Now friendships grow unnaturally old.

We wither but we never die.

Forever Prometheus.

image: dsearls

Spencer Krug is Magic

18 Apr

It was another rainy day in Bellingham.  But it wasn’t just raining, it was pouring.  An insane amount of water was cascading from the sky; a sky that minutes earlier had been calm and nonthreatening.  I had gotten stuck in this downpour on my way home from class.  I was drenched.  My clothes were soaked… there was not a dry spot on me.  I couldn’t stop smiling.  One might wonder why.  I’m sure everyone on the buses passing by thought I was a lunatic.  There I was in the middle of a monsoon and I was positively beaming.  Well, I will oblige this “one” with a simple answer: Spencer Krug.  Sunset Rubdown was playing on my iPod… specifically this song.  And because of that simple fact, I was happy.

Any other day I may have been miserable about being stuck in a downpour, but Spencer Krug… he’s magic.

Obsessions

17 Apr

I have an obsession.  It is recent.  Old books.  By this, I do not mean books that were written long ago… though I am quite fond of those as well.  No, I mean the “go into Half Price Books and find a 1917 copy of Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native” old books.  I know that 1917 is not that long ago, but it was still very cool.  No cover art, just a navy blue hardcover with Return of the Native written in faded gold lettering.  It’s brilliant.  The best part is that it used to belong to a school district in Amherst Massachusetts and that despite the stamp on the inside forbidding students to mark upon the book with ink or pencil, miss Marion Brett (name written on the inside under “Pupil’s Name”) decided not to obey.  Her notations can be found throughout, one chapter heading notes that it must be studied for Wednesday.  It is marvelous.  I cannot wait to read it.

Thomas Hardy is also a recent obsession of mine.  One to rival my infatuation with Jane Austen.  It all started with Jude the Obscure, which is obscenely sad and extremely well written.  Required reading for a literature class, I was not looking forward to it.  But much like my experience reading Wuthering Heights, once I started it, I could not put it down.  Hardy’s prose are so magnificent that I was required to go back and read portions of the text just to absorb their beauty a second time.  I even read them aloud to Connor at times when I could not bear to be the only one marveling at their beauty.  Months later I read Tess of the d’Urbervilles and the obsession became a force within me.  It was brilliant.  After that, my love for Hardy could not be sated.  I had to have more.  I began The Mayor of Casterbridge.  I have not finished it, but so far it lives up to all of my high expectations.

I highly recommend Thomas Hardy’s novels to anyone, especially if you’re a huge lit nerd like me and can’t get enough 19th Century British Literature.  And if you are lucky enough to find old copies with Marion Brett’s lovely cursive scattered throughout, so much the better.

The Small Things

17 Apr

Everyone claims to appreciate the small things in life.  But what are the small things?  I believed that I too was an appreciator of “small things.”  Yet, to my surprise I realized that what I considered “small things” were in actuality not that small.  This realization came on an evening a few weeks ago.  I was having an “off day” and Connor suggested we each write a list of little things that make us happy.  I agreed.  We both began our lists.  Mine was a bulleted list of things I appreciated, things I believed to be small.  This list contained a span of random items from the sound of raindrops on a roof to Greek food.  I thought I was accomplishing what I had set out to do.  I was wrong.  When I read my list aloud to Connor I felt pleased with it.  I felt that I truly understood the activity, and my mood was already benefiting from it.  It was not until I heard his list that I realized I was wrong.  First, his was written less like a list and more like a sentence.  It looked like a delicate stream of words, perfectly encapsulating the spirit of the activity.  His small lettering and haphazardly scrawled words looked perfect to me.  Compared to my large lettering and bulleted list, his was far superior.  The beautiful thing about it was that it wasn’t a list at all, it was more of a stream of thought laid down on paper.  But the most appealing thing about his list was the content.  Everything listed was truly something small, even minute.  His list contained things like the veins in leaves.  Needless to say, it did not contain any type of food.  I felt as if I had failed.  His observations were so exquisite and mine were so… lame.  I couldn’t help thinking how much more splendid his mind was than mine.  The fact that the smallest details about life, details that most people rarely think about or notice, made him happy was admirable.  I wanted to be more like him.  His list showed me what the little things in life truly are.  Not Greek food, or a good glass of wine, but the smallest details overlooked by most, but not by him.

The next day, the little thing I appreciated was the silence of a usually busy street.  So rare and so wonderfully enchanting.